Crazy Circles
by Mardy Lass
Summary: SEASON 4 SPOILERS to 4x22. Moments after the end of episode 4x22, Sam and Dean realise they’re the only things standing in the way of destiny. Or are they? Can Dean do what he must, at the right time, in the right place?
1. Life Is Like a Carousel

**Author's Note:**

_Rated T for language and gore. Sorry, couldn't fit any sex in this one. I promise it'll be in the next story I write._

_Tried to keep the summary spoiler-free. Didn't want to give away the end of s4 to those who haven't seen it and were trying to avoid reading post-4x22 stories._

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**ONE:**

**Life Is Like A Carousel**

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The swirling light picked up, casting ugly shadows over the dead body once inhabited by Ruby. The convent, the crypt, was bathed in freakish white light.

It occurred to Sam that he had some purpose, now. _Something good will come of this. Something good **must** come of this_, he realised.

Dean tore his horrified stare from the opening pit in the floor to snatch a look at his brother. Instead of the matching look of creeping terror he had expected, he saw determination.

"Sammy - let's _go_!" Dean urged, grabbing his jacket.

But his baby brother would not be pulled. He grabbed at his elder brother in turn, anchoring them both to the spot.

"He's coming!" Sam breathed. An eager streak of vengeance, of mortality surged through him and he hauled against his brother's well-meaning pull. He turned to look at him, to ignore the painfully bright light even as it swept over the stones around them. "This is it!" he called over the sound of swirling, screeching wind. "This is where you stop him!"

"How?" Dean roared back. "How the hell am I supposed to do that!"

Sam blinked into his brother's orbs of desperation, despair. "You'll know when you see it. You always do. You always have!" he urged.

"You're talking crazy, Sam! We gotta get _out_ of here!" he snarled. He yanked but Sam countered his weight.

"No! This is it, Dean! We don't come back from this! We can't!"

And then the wind died. The light switched itself off. All was darkness and stillness.

Something held perfectly still in the pitch. Something that made no sound, made no movement. But watched.

The feeling sent a chill through them both, a horrifyingly electrical wake-up call that told them they were most definitely not alone in the crypt.

They turned slowly, dreading the sight.

Their human eyes dragged themselves toward the small, shiny object somewhere in front of them in the darkness. It moved slightly, as if from side to side. As their eyes slowly acclimatised to the Stygian envelope around them their ears registered the slow, wheezed breathing of something directly in front of them.

The light rose. Or the darkness simply moved back from the thing in the pocket of non-light, it was hard to tell.

The heavy sound of air drawn in and expelled moved toward them. They tightened their grip on each other's jackets, stepping back in unison.

The shiny object suddenly twitched upwards, and they realised with mortifying terror that they were looking at the top edge of a pair of four-foot polished horns. They watched the form in front of them unbend from one knee, lifting itself to stretch twice their height.

Their mouths fell open. They hurried back but Sam's boots encountered the corpse that had, until recently, held Ruby. He stumbled, his brother's grip insufficient to stop the inevitable. He went down hard, landing on his back, his head colliding with the stone wall.

"Sam!" Dean cursed. He turned and crouched, grabbing at his jacket. "C'mon, man, get up!" he urged through gritted teeth. "This is _not_ what we signed up for!"

"_Sam_," came a thrumming, callous noise. Dean froze long enough to see his younger brother's eyes blink open in bleary recognition. "_You shall be destroyed first_."

Dean's eyes fell to his baby brother's. Sam's anguished face tilted in fearful realisation of his brother's vengeance about to strike. He put a hand up but Dean brushed it aside as he looked over his shoulder.

The sight that greeted him should have struck terror into his heart. It should have weakened his spirit, diminished his resolve.

But instead, it poked the angry beast within the human in a really, _really_ unwise manoeuvre.

"And just who the hell do you think _you_ are?" Dean accused.

The mass, the form of roiling, shifting shapes, drew itself up. It clenched mighty fists nearly as big as Dean's head. It widened its stance to match the barely recognisable chunks of flesh that described formidable shoulders. Blood-matted, thickened hair - or perhaps fur - covered the lower half of the body. It was almost against the laws of Sod to see a long, evil whip of a tail spring from behind, lashing from side to side in abject indignation.

"You are Dean," the beast grinned, its teeth projecting a foot from the slick head. The features were mostly arranged as if human, but for some reason, nothing made sense. Watching the head mould and adjust, continuously slide to new formations and reapply itself, Dean Winchester realised something.

_He don't even look dangerous. No wait, he does… But I'm just not feeling it_.

He had a moment to wonder why, before something else tumbled from his mouth.

"And you're just about the worst piss-poor excuse for a fallen angel I've ever seen," he sneered.

The beast growled something deep within the cavernous ribcage, its fists opening and closing in furious anger. It paused for only a second before stomping up mere feet from the lone standing human. Its maw dropped open and it bayed with all its fury, all its vengeful will and intent.

Dean let his head tilt against the blast of pure sound, agony to his ears. He let his eyes squirm half closed at the air rushing over him, the feelings of pain and rage.

Abruptly it was gone. Silence vacuumed everything from the room for a whole minute.

Dean swung his head round, his relatively tiny green orbs of disgust boring into the upright demonic presence.

"Enough," he breathed, apparently to himself. His chin began to stick out in barely contained indignation. "You know what? I'm _tired_ of this!" he snarled. His hands came up and shoved with all his strength.

The creature actually stumbled back, taken by surprise at the touch and the audacity.

Dean didn't notice. What he felt was a yank on the hem of his jeans. But he shook off what he knew to be Sam's hand without even a backward glance.

"I am sick of all this _bullcrap_," he growled, taking a step toward the being. Lucifer didn't move. So Dean reached out and pushed hard again with both hands.

The creature stumbled back, too surprise to comprehend what was happening.

"What gives _you_ the right to screw us around like this!" Dean took another step, then another, not registering that Lucifer himself was backing up in caution. Dean's boots kept going and he finally realised he was closing on the monstrosity. But his feet wouldn't stop. "You pathetic, worthless, _useless_ excuse for an angel!"

A low hiss began from the form, but Dean put a hand up, waving it angrily. "Oh, you got issues? You got _issues_?" he demanded with real fire. "You got eff-all, you aggravating _piece of shit_! You want to hear issues?"

The being lashed out with a tail. It hammered square into Dean's chest, sending him flying to his right. He walloped into the stone wall, crashing down into a wooden pew.

Sam struggled to his feet, his head kept upright by a bloodied hand. But something stronger than protection, more potent than any devil's trap, was making it possible for Dean to put his hands to the floor and wrench himself upright.

Fury.

He hurled the wooden seat aside as if it weighed nothing, advancing again on the creature.

"You got nothing! You hear me? _Nothing!_" Dean bellowed. The creature hissed, unexpectedly silenced by the resilience of the human maggot in front of him. "You _dare_ think you got anything on us? I've spent my _life_ having the crap beaten out of me by things rougher than you, you brainless bastard! You think you're special? You couldn't even cut it as an angel!"

The tail came round again. But this time, Dean was quicker. His hands slammed into the meaty rope. He curled it around himself.

Sam put a hand up to stop him.

But Dean was already moving his feet. The tail trapped, the attached creature a prisoner of his own momentum. The owner was propelled into the stone wall.

The crypt shook. The walls groaned in protest. But Dean simply stomped over.

"I finally found the boss in all this - you know what those sons of bitches did to me down there? Your little minions in your neck of the woods? Know _why_?" he shouted thickly. "To get you out! To start all this! You know what? I'm _glad_ you got out - I'm _glad_ you been lookin' for us!" he raged, jabbing an incensed finger at the shocked creature. "Cos you wanna know what's gonna stop you from your little apocalypse shindig? _Me!_ So come on, give it your best shot, _you needy asshole! Here I am!_"

The creature scrambled to its feet. It lunged.

Dean simply dropped. The creature found itself in the air, rolling into a target that wasn't there. It slammed into the floor, springing to its soft feet with startling agility.

"_Here I am - to finally get some payback!_" Dean roared.

Sam gasped and jumped back. He found himself against the wall. He could only watch in fear as his elder brother ran full-tilt into the beast readying itself for him.

He stared, horrified, as Dean collided with the creature. His weight knocked it off its feet and they went down in a tangled mass of human and beast. There was a howling, angry sound, joined by a guttural cry of vengeance.

Sam pushed himself back against the wall.

_This isn't right. This isn't how it's supposed to go. Dean's supposed to get us to leave - we're supposed to back off, think about a gameplan, come back with the cavalry. What the hell's he doing?_

But in his heart, he knew. The nights Dean had spent shivering and grunting at nightmares, the days he had wasted drinking himself into dreamless sleep, the times he had sweated and twitched and cried out in mortifying fear at the memories that had tormented him - all these moments stood out in Sam's mind's eye. All these times justified what his elder brother was attempting to do. All these times were making it easy for the creature to exploit his blood, his family.

His brother.

Sam pushed himself up off the wall. He cast around for a something to use as a weapon. His eyes fell upon the demon blade, lying by Ruby's once borrowed corpse.

He bent slowly, picking it up. He looked it over, eyeing the demonic shade of human blood still clinging to it. An almost overwhelming urge to lick the blade clean made his hand twitch. But then he looked at it again - looked hard. And Ruby's words came back to him:

"_You didn't need the magic feather, it was in you all along, Dumbo_."

But then it was his brother's words that rang clearly in his head: "_Look what she's done to you!_"

Sam's face slid into an evil smile. He turned the blade in his hand, wiping it slowly on his jacket sleeve. He turned himself around, wiping the smile from his face, the conscience from his mind. He took a deep breath and centred himself on the sounds of struggling.

Abruptly, Dean was shoved up and into the air. He flew clear and landed on the stone blocks of the floor. He was already getting up and readying himself for the next assault when he paused. He saw Sam on his feet. He saw the demon knife in his hand.

Sam lunged for Lucifer, still pushing itself to its feet.

"_SAAAAUUUM!_" Dean raged.

The fury, the rage, the feeling of being cheated out of doing it himself - Dean flung himself forward, aiming for Sam. Their shoulders collided. Sam was knocked to one side, to safety. The knife spun out of his hand. It landed with a clatter on the stone floor. Dean lost his balance, barrelled down into the creature.

There was a roar of retribution. Sam scrabbled back across the floor, found himself leaning against the stone wall. Dean twisted up and slammed his elbow down into whatever was underneath him. Something flashed in Lucifer's hand. Dean gave a grunt, his free right hand shooting up and grabbing the wrist of the beast.

It snarled and lashed with its tail, unprepared for a human having such strength. Dean held the wrist tightly and twisted.

The beast squealed in pain. The knife dropped from his grip. Sam pushed himself to his hands and knees. He reached for the blade, snatched it up. He looked up.

Dean still had hold of the wrist with one hand. His other was plunging into the thick neck. His fingers crunched down like a vice. The beast roared and struggled.

"Dean!" Sam tossed the knife at him.

His brother didn't even look away from the mess he was in. His right hand left the beast and simply caught the blade, somewhat clumsily. But he flipped it round with a deftness born of practice and necessity. He slammed it down into the neck.

There was an almighty scream.

Dean lifted the knife and stabbed relentlessly, hacking and cutting at that which had poisoned and wounded him through so many nights of torture.

He felt the anger, the adrenaline, the heat. He knew his face was dripping, knew his t-shirt was soaked, knew he was passing the point of no return. But there was nothing, nothing except the need to hurt the beast under him in as many ways as possible.

And Sam understood. A part of him enjoyed the show of vengeance.

He rushed over and appeared next to his brother, his hands grabbing for the moving beast's limbs. He held them steady, and in a startling display of silent lucidity, the brothers Winchester applied more pain and blade.

The peels of racking torture echoed around the crypt, but whether it was louder from the lone figure on its back or the two assaulters pinning it to the floor was impossible to tell. All that was heard was matching cries of effort and pain, three lifetimes of incarceration and injustice battling it out for the upper hand.

The scream began to lose strength. The creature ceased to thrash. It lay back, letting the human carve with the knife with impunity. It simply lay back, closed its huge eyes, and gave up.

Dean noticed first.

_Son of a bitch!_ He realised dully that he was more affronted by losing his target for quenching his thirst for vengeance, rather than being glad they had won.

He sat back, pulling his hands from the mess of a ribcage, shaking them free of bloody juices and organic matter. He looked to his left, finding his younger brother similarly regaining a sense of humanity from the bestial need to rip and shred that they had just shared.

They panted their breath back, content to swallow and exchange a shallow, knowing glance that was disquieting in its tacit acknowledgement of the situation.

"What now?" Sam breathed, swallowing for something to lubricate his throat.

"We carve him into _real - small - pieces_," Dean snarled.

Something hitched in Sam's chest. _He's not coming down from this_, he realised in horror._ He's never going to come down from this. He's snapped. Lost it_.

He backed away from the fallen angel and the fallen human. He tasted his own fear as he took another step behind him with trepidation.

Dean lifted the blade in his hand and slammed it down through the open ribcage. He plunged the tip into the spine, attempting to crack it. His mouth was set into a grim line, his face impassive. But his eyes burned with purpose as he wedged the knife between vertebrae.

"Whut's the matter, Sammy?" Dean grunted, not brave enough to look at him. "You afraid of me, now?"

Sam's mouth ran dry. He shook his head lamely as Dean twisted the knife with an abrupt _crack_ of bones giving way.

"Kind of ironic, when you think about it," Dean allowed, but there was an evil presence to his words now, a menacing lilt Sam had never heard before. Dean slipped the knife free and dropped it to the stone floor. He reached in with his bare hands and grasped parts of bone, yanking it apart, apparently pleased by the snapping sounds. "The thought of you going Dark Side always scared the crap outta me - even when I thought about it and thought about it till it made me hurl."

Sam backed up a step as his brother turned to look at him. But he saw no malice, no intent.

"But all along it was me." Dean shrugged helplessly, his eyes pained and sore. He pushed himself off the fallen Lucifer, getting to his feet laboriously.

Sam's gaze, glued to his brother's anguish, missed the way Dean's hand came to the front of his t-shirt in pain. He also missed the blood that had soaked across his chest in thin lines, starting to seep through and form thin rivulets down him in its quest to be free.

"It was the hunt," Sam whispered, trying to be supportive as Dean backed up to the far wall. "It was being tortured down in the Pit. It was Lucifer. He did this to you - and you got h--"

He stopped, some instinct making him turn his attention back to the stricken creature. It was still, inert. But something was making the hair on the back of Sam's neck stand on end. And it was no longer Dean.

Dean eyed him, grunting in pain and letting his foot shift to take his weight. He stretched a hand to the stone wall alongside him, fearing he would stumble. Sam looked at him quickly, uncomprehending, then back at Lucifer.

And its mouth, opening slowly. Instead of a breath, a gasp at life, the brothers Winchester saw something else.

Thick tendrils of black, billowing smoke.

Flooding out.

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_So I'm a Bad Company wh*re. I make no apologies. :) Needs another chapter? Well obviously - another chapter!_


	2. You Aim For Heaven And You Wind Up In He

**TWO:**

**You Aim For Heaven And You Wind Up In Hell**

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The black smoke filled the chamber. Both boys' arms flew to their heads, keeping the strange, swirling danger from their eyes.

They stepped back and Sam reached blindly for his brother.

_Whether he's gone nuts on bloodlust or not, he's still your brother_, his mind screamed at him. His hand found material before something brought him to a halt.

Dean's hand on his shoulder. Pulling. To safety.

Sam couldn't help grinning in relief: _He's still Dean_.

Sam gratefully went with him, following him instinctively. They found themselves in the corner of the crypt, backed up against the wall, the billowing mass of Hellish cloud buffeting them.

Something clicked in Sam's mind. It was hard to say what, exactly. But something made him stand straighter, taller, larger than life. He turned to Dean, could see him without the need of his eyes.

"I know what I'm here for," he said clearly.

Hands waved at the black air. "Sammy? Where are you?" came his brother's worried voice.

"I'm right here, Dean," Sam informed him with a knowing grin. "Where I've always been." He laid a hand on his elder brother's shoulder, not surprised in the least to find that while he could see beyond the cloud, Dean could not. "You did it - you brought him down. Now it's my turn," Sam smiled gratefully.

"Sam? No!" Dean commanded.

Or thought he did.

Sam simply cleared his mind, taking all his worldly troubles and shoving them right to the back. He took a deep breath.

He raised a hand. One, single hand.

He concentrated. He let his eyes slip closed. He felt the black cloud regrouping and aiming for him, knew it was closing dangerously fast.

He couldn't stop grinning.

_You wanted a special child, one who could kill Lilith_, he heard himself broadcast, unsure of whom he could reach,_ but I bet you never realised exactly what that would mean_.

The evil swathe of rolling blackness descended upon him. And still he was grinning.

Dean hacked in a breath, one hand pressed to his pained front. A wave of weakness, of agony, passed through him at the touch, but he ignored it. He waved at the Stygian mist, realising it was already dissipating.

"You did it!" he coughed, turning to his brother. "You killed Lucifer!"

The crypt was abruptly clear. Suddenly there was no smoke, no demonic cloud, no evidence of Lucifer save the rapidly cooling creature in various degrees of bloody vivisection on the floor. Dean turned to his baby brother.

His triumphant grin died. He felt the blood drain from his face.

"Sam?" he whispered.

Sam stood tall, his frame proud and strong, his grin broad.

And his eyes bright, sparkling yellow.

"Dean," he allowed, in the same old pleased, oddly child-like voice. "I got him. He's trapped." He twitched slightly, jerking to his right. "I got him."

Dean stared. He refused to take a step back. "Lucifer's… in there? With you?" he dared.

"He's trapped. We gotta keep him trapped," he said urgently. "But I can't hold him for long."

Dean grabbed his brother's upper arms, staring at his eyes in horror. "Sammy…"

"Yeah, Dean," he nodded slowly. "It's really me. It was the only way. He can't harm me, but I can never let him go. He wanted Azazel to find him a special child. That was me. Looks like it cuts both ways."

Dean's fingers gripped Sam ever more tightly. "This ain't how it was supposed to go, Sam," he managed.

In that second, Sam realised a great deal.

He knew his brother was not the soul-destroying monster he thought he had been in Hell. He knew Dean would always be trying to save his baby brother's soul, no matter what it took. He knew he was doomed; Lucifer was within him, the only prison from which even a fallen angel could never break free. And he knew Dean knew it too.

"We're supposed to _kill_ the evil bastard!" Dean pleaded, his sudden innocence heart-breaking to behold. "We're supposed to win! We're supposed to get our _lives_ back!" He paused, and his voice broke just slightly as it swept over him in pained confusion, with fear for his brother. "What are you _doing_?"

"Killing the evil bastard. Winning. Getting our lives back," Sam whispered.

"Not like _this_, Sam! Not like this!"

Sam opened his mouth, but he couldn't answer. Something was fighting him for control, something demanded to be heard. So he let it speak.

Anger, hatred, vitriol - he let it all roll over him.

_Dean, I can do this_, he heard himself hope, over and over. The angry voice in his head rang clearly, loudly, painfully, dangerously close to taking over. But then Sam detected a new sound. Tiny whispers, tiny assurances the likes of which no evil could ever break:

"_Everything's gonna be ok. I got you, Sammy. Everything's gonna be ok_."

So Sam let the voice try to bargain. He let it try to persuade. He let it try to plead. And finally, he let it beg.

He knew himself to be stronger than this fallen angel had ever been: going against his nature to follow Ruby's advice had taught him that much. He knew the pair of Winchesters to be more than anything Lucifer could throw at them. And Sam Winchester was nothing if not a fastidious, pedantic law student to the point of mental breakdown. He could hammer out an offer, a plea-bargain, a _deal_ the likes of which this sorry collection of confused, jumbled ambition wrestling with his mind could never hope to break.

And so Sam set about making it happen. He set about wrapping up the universe's most water-tight, bindingly ruthless piece of bargaining he had ever dared wish for in his life.

_No_, he realised, _not my life. Everyone's lives. You want the apocalypse? You can kiss my ass_.

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Dean gripped his brother's arms, holding him upright. Sam's eyes had sunk closed, his frame much less sure of itself. Dean swallowed his fear and walked him backwards to the wall, pushing him against it gently and using it to keep them both vertical.

"Sammy, c'mon!" he urged. "Don't let the bastard do this to you!"

He let his eyes range over his baby brother's face, remembering another time, another place, another baby Sam. The moment, the sliver of Time, the night of the fire in his tiny brother's nursery flashed across his brain: he saw the door to the nursery, saw his father handing Sam over to him, ordering him outside. He hadn't understood why he had had to be the one to carry him, but he understood now.

He kept a tight hold on the youngest Winchester, hoping he could feel his grip on him.

"Everything's gonna be ok. I got you, Sammy. Everything's gonna be ok," he growled. "Just don't let him win!" He watched Sam's eye twitch and jumped on the idea of taking it as a good sign. "Everything's gonna be ok. I got you, Sammy. Everything's gonna be ok," he repeated, more loudly. He felt the muscles in Sam's arms pulse just for a second. "Everything's gonna be ok. I got you, Sammy. Everything's gonna be ok!"

Sam's head tilted slightly, then suddenly his eyes opened. Dean felt himself jump, just as he realised there was sweat pouring down his own back, and something else sticky and warm down his front.

"Sam!" he crowed triumphantly, grabbing his brother's face and steadying it. "You're ok! Right? Right?" He watched his brother's eyes swirl back and forth between green-brown and yellow.

"Kinda," Sam allowed, smiling broadly. "I just made a deal with the devil."

Dean's face fell. Sam put his hands up and aimed for Dean's arms. He could feel the muscles tight and knew what it meant.

"It's ok, Dean," he soothed quickly. "He was begging _me_."

"Deals? More deals?" Dean demanded, anguished. Sam was taken by surprise. "What did he want, Sam? Whose soul this time? Or were there not enough to go round?"

Sam felt Dean's hands leave his face and had a moment to wonder if Dean had stumbled or he had.

"No - I got his. I got _his_," Sam grinned. "We win! You killed him, I got him to sell his immortal soul! _We win_!"

Dean just stared. "I don't get it!"

"He knew he was beat. He's promised me - made a deal that he will never try to escape - from in here," he added, tapping his head pointedly. "I agreed. He's never _allowed_ to escape, can never even _attempt_ to escape, can never welch on this deal. He can cause all the crap he wants, but he can ever escape _me_."

Dean stared, his eyes darting from one of Sam's to the other. "_Do you realise what you've done?_" he whispered in horror. "To _yourself_? Sammy - I never wanted this for you--"

"Well maybe I _did_," Sam interrupted. "Maybe I wanted my whole, screwed up life to mean something. Maybe I wanted a chance to make someone bend to _us_ for a goddamn change!"

Dean held him up by his arms, nodding slowly. "Ok, alright, ok, you did good," he allowed, but his voice was far too controlled, far too soothing. "So how do we get him out?"

The sweat on his back was rolling down too easily, soaking into the waist of his jeans, Dean realised. He tutted, confused as to how an empty circle could be causing so much heat. He began to turn around.

"Son of a--"

He stopped short as the plain truth of the matter was hammered home.

No longer the corner of a crypt, the room had succumbed to more than just a fist-fight between humans and a recently escaped fallen angel. The gateway to Hell, allowed to fester and boil, had melted and attacked the very edge of reality itself. Crags and blocks of the ground fell away, tumbling down into the heart of the Pit.

Dean grasped Sam's arms and hauled him clear of the steadily widening circle. The walls began to quake and rumble even as they stumbled to the rear of the crypt, heading for the door through which they had come.

Early morning light streamed in through the beautifully stained windows. Until they shattered and splintered, the rock walls and wooden mounts bending and giving under unearthly machinations.

"What the hell?" Dean called over the noise of destruction.

"Maybe it wasn't so water-tight," Sam allowed.

"Whut?" Dean demanded, shaking his brother slightly. "Whut's that supposed to mean?"

"I said he could try whatever he wanted - as long as he didn't try and escape me," he explained.

"And?"

"And… well, maybe I forgot an addendum about not letting the manhole to Hell keep spreading until it engulfed the place."

"Dumbass!" Dean accused. He pulled Sam's head down by his jacket as the wall collapsed, ducking them both away from the site and into the passageway beyond. When they straightened, it was in empty air that smelt of cool morning breeze. "Any more bright ideas, Quatermass?"

"Like?"

"This place is falling apart quicker than stage 28 at Universal," Dean observed. "We need to find a way to end him and get you free of him for good."

Sam failed to argue, following his brother beyond the trembling, falling walls and out into the sunshine. They looked around, watching the last of the crypt walls quiver and give out. The stone piled down, creating a mountain of dust which they were surprised to see clear so quickly.

Until they realised they were now in a very windy, open space. The ground shook slightly, the keen crumbling edge of Hellish fire starting to creep toward them, biting more and more out of what now appeared to be a cliff bordering on either a volcano or a straight drop into Hell.

"Whut the--. How did we get here?" Dean gasped.

"We haven't moved," Sam called into the buffeting wind. "The convent was down there!" He pointed into the steadily widening pit.

"Oops!" Dean allowed. "We might have screwed up here, Sammy!"

"If he defaults, if he welches, I win!" Sam grinned.

"Whut!"

"If he welches - I win!" Sam repeated. "It's built-in! I knew he couldn't resist fighting his way out - I knew he'd lie and try to destroy us both - I've got him! And he'll _never realise_ what he's just done! He'll never know that it was _him - he's_ imprisoned _himself_ for eternity!"

Dean stared at his kid brother, the yellow eyes alight with cunning and brilliance.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean demanded, but it came out more admiring than damning. Sam simply shook his head, waving him off.

"We've won! He's lost - he lost the moment Azazel came onto the scene! _That's_ what's going to destroy him!"

Dean looked at him - just looked. He felt exhaustion catching up with him in a big way, making him sway slightly. He looked around at the scene of impending fire and death.

"So whut do we do now? How do we stop that hole spreading? Any ideas?" he called over the wind, his arms out in resignation.

"Actually?" Sam chuckled, "I've got one idea left. And it's a real doozy."

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_Hope it does the job! Next chapter coming Sunday 12th July. :)_


	3. I Will Face The Sun, Leaving Shadows Far

**THREE:**

**I Will Face The Sun, Leaving Shadows Far Behind**

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Sam and Dean felt the quake as the fire burned closer and closer. The sweat was pouring off them. Dean, as his hand encountered the front of his t-shirt in sharp pain, was reminded it wasn't the only thing.

A harsh tremor threw the boys from their feet. They sprawled in the dusty crags of the cliff top, hearing the lick of flames from beyond the edge.

Adrenaline gone, Dean had a sinking feeling he knew why he had no strength to get up again. He spread his right hand under his front, heard the slight squelch, felt the fire in his skin, and his suspicion was confirmed. He closed his eyes, refusing to get angry at something that had been inevitable since the day he had picked up a shotgun, ready to shoot a Striga.

He heard his brother grunt and realised that, no matter how sore he was feeling, Sam had to have it worse. He turned his head in the dirt to look at him.

Sam's eyes glittered yellow in the bright sun. "Dean…"

"We are so screwed, Sammy," he allowed. "That idea you had? Better be good."

"I can't control him much longer, Dean. He has to fight to get out, that's how he'll welch on all this. But if he gets me from the inside, if he gets out too soon, it won't just be us two who are screwed."

"I know," he managed, his voice rough at the dawning realisation of his brother's plea.

Sam gave a slight grunt of effort, of pain, clawing his way to the edge of the rocky cliff. He looked over.

"It is still burning, right?" Dean coughed.

"Yeah," Sam smiled in relief.

"Super." He put his one good hand out, grabbing at the rock beneath him. Sam heard movement and turned.

"Dean--"

"Shut up," he strained.

Sam bit his lip, watching his brother strain and heave his battered body to his side. He relaxed in the dust, breathing hard. He coughed, spitting out blood like it was sour milk.

Sam, startled, took in the spill of red, the way it was starting to pool under his brother. He clenched his teeth.

"Look, Dean… I've got to go. I've got to go over. To stop him. But you'll be ok - you can hold on," he managed.

"Not - this time," Dean rasped.

He shuffled his right elbow under him to bring his hand free. It was not, as Sam had thought, his arm that was injured. Two huge gashes had swept across his elder brother's chest, presumably from a tail. The deep lacerations, the flesh hanging weakly down each edge, the seep of too much blood - it was all too painful just to look at, and Sam felt his heart constrict.

"_No_," he whispered.

"Too old for this shit," Dean coughed. He turned the bloodied hand out, setting it on Sam's forearm. "Too slow. We shoulda retired already."

There was a long, awkward silence. Sam felt the twisting, thrashing fallen angel inside of him. "I'm running out of time," he whispered.

Dean turned his head to rest it in the dust, smiling at him slightly. "You and me both." He shoved at his baby brother's arm. "Hurry up," he grunted painfully. "We go together."

"Together?" Sam asked, smiling at last. He felt his face wet but didn't care.

"Always," Dean managed, his voice an agonised rasp.

"Right." Sam grabbed his upper arm and he shuffled closer to the edge. He helped his brother closer to the sheer drop. They both looked over.

"That's a helluva barbecue pit," Dean breathed, all his strength gone. "Think it'll fry Lucifer?"

"It'll fry _us_," Sam grinned knowingly. "And to kill the number one fallen angel, you gotta have that very rare thing no-one, no monster, no murderer, no demon ever found."

"Whut's - whut's that?" Dean coughed. Blood spilled from his mouth, but the only thing Sam had to offer was a sad smile.

"The only thing that can kill an angel is an angel," he reasoned. "And the only thing that can kill a fallen angel is a - is a fallen angel," he nodded, pushing at his brother. His meaning didn't appear to register with Dean, but Sam felt it stretching his face into a proud smile. "And the only thing that can kill a Winchester is a--

"Winchester," Dean managed. He grinned abruptly, but it brought more blood. "Well let's go then."

Sam looked over the edge. "Now?"

"Now or - or never."

Sam nodded, bracing himself for the push. But Dean caught his elbow with what seemed like the last of his strength.

"Sammy," he urged.

Sam just waited, staring at the blood, the bruises, the broken big brother before his eyes. _No_, he realised with suddenly bright, shining pride: _not broken. Never broken. Beaten down, but never broken_.

"What?" he managed, when Dean hadn't spoken.

"I…" He appeared to catch his breath, and Sam suddenly feared he wouldn't find it. The elder brother's face ran the gamut of emotions from guilt to pride to understanding to gladness.

"What?" Sam dared.

Dean was out of breath, out of courage to say what had to be said, and out of time. He decided on the one shortcut that could encompass everything, the one thing his baby brother would understand. "Bitch," he ground out.

Sam grinned but it brought water to his eyes. "You were always my favourite jerk," he allowed.

Dean's mouth curved into an indulgent smile as his eyes closed and his head sank to the rock beneath him.

"Dean! Dean!" he called, grabbing at his wrist. "C'mon man. Who's gonna make sure we both make it to the afterlife?"

Dean's eyes blinked open with an Herculean effort. His hand tightened on his younger brother's arm and he pulled at it.

Sam pulled too, struggling to get them both to the very tip. They paused, hanging over slightly.

"They better have - have wenches," Dean spluttered.

"They will." Sam looked at his brother, knowing it was for the last time. "Hey - you think we'll remember we did this? Wherever we end up?" he dared quietly.

Dean's eyes fluttered as he fought to keep them open. "Well I sure as Hell am - _wherever_ I end up," he grunted. "Story of my goddamn life, that only you and me are the ones who could know."

Sam's face fell, twenty-six years of hope and failure battling it out on his tortured features. "I'll remember. I'll remember you brought him down. All I did was keep him there."

Dean shuffled his head to catch his brother's anguished, hopeful stare, the eyebrows begging for everything to finally, and once and for all, be alright. Just for a second, his eyes flashed brown-green again. Then the yellow closed over, fighting for control.

"Be hard to forget you, you pain in the ass," Dean coughed, a gruffness to his demeanour that Sam knew he would miss like the air he was breathing. "Let's go."

He tugged at Sam. His sibling pulled too. They rolled a few inches: that was all it took.

The drop from the edge was nothing. The fire into which they fell was a different story.

It consumed.

Everything.

The wind whipped at the flames, the flames stroked long fingers up the side of the rock face. But they failed miserably to get anywhere near the top.

The top. Where the pool of Dean's blood slowly sank into the rock itself, causing a large stain, dark with injustice. Where the tracks of Sam's dragged boots almost looked like part of the craggy surface.

Where two scuffed black shoes stopped.

He felt the wind in his face, heard the crackling of some world-changing fire far below. The wind howled and gusted, sending ash and grit into the air around him. He did not go to the edge. He did not look down. Instead he turned, about to leave.

Something caught his eye. It was small, shiny, half covered in the swirling dust. He approached warily, before crouching to look at it. His head tilted left and right as he inspected it.

"What is it?" said a voice from behind him.

Castiel put out his hand, digging into the dirt and lifting the small, bronze object glinting in the sun. He got to his feet slowly, letting the dust drain between his fingers. He turned to her.

An entire world of sadness coalesced into the two small words: "It's Dean's."

Anna put her hand out, taking it from him. She let her fingers rub over the surface of the small amulet slowly, pushing the smears of blood from it.

"I shall return it to Bobby," Castiel breathed, putting his hand out for it. "I should tell him what they have done here today."

She handed it back to him slowly, her eyes on the ground as she turned away. Castiel put his hand out for her sleeve. He missed. The back of his hand encountered hers. She hesitated, then turned to look at him. His eyes, so drawn and so haggard, pleaded with her.

"We'll go together," she allowed, smiling slightly. She curled her fingers around his.

They began to retreat from the cliff top.

"Can you feel that?" Anna asked suddenly. Castiel gripped her hand as if it would stave off the Lord's wrath itself. She turned to face him. "This is not right."

They looked around, the peaceful, tranquil summer's day uninterrupted, calm.

But the angels felt it; a massive shifting, grinding of Time and Place, a heaving, painful re-ordering. They looked back at each other, finding their hosts' eyes quickly. Anna grasped at the taller angel's forearms, his fingers gripped her upper arms.

"Hold on," he warned.

The ground beneath their feet was steady, sturdy, solid. No movement rippled the rocky crags, no tremble, no matter how slight, urged anything into the tiniest shudder. The world was at complete and utter peace.

Only the angels felt the screaming, anguished grinding of time immaterial, the rough edges of time immemorial, flail and sheer against the stress. All linear movement halted. All conceptions of fluidity and consequence fizzled away into a howling, keening protest of momentum being dragged to a reality-defying dead stop.

Anna let go of Castiel's arms long enough to fling herself into the front of his shirt and tie. Her arms clamped round his sides. He was already reaching around her back, his head lowering to press to hers desperately, as if it could keep out the destruction and demolition threatening to tear them to pieces on the very spot.

The sun shone, the birds flew, the wind gently plied over the serenity of the cliff top, completely oblivious to the two heavenly creatures trying to hold on to their very existence.

Light started to bleed into the real-time space around them. The tear began to pull at the edges of Time itself in an arc spreading from their position and lancing out into the sky, the cliff top, the air. It crackled and seared, leaving the overpowering stench of ozone as it ripped a huge tear in the fabric of substance itself.

Castiel kept his cheek pressed to the top of Anna's head. But he tilted it slightly, daring to open an eye and look out.

"They were too late! It's ending!" he warned.

He felt her human host trembling against him, and on instinct tightened his grip, hoping to spread some confidence. But he felt himself scratched and torn by a thousand tiny blades flying at high speed.

"No - they did it! It's starting! It's all starting!" she realised.

He squeezed onto her tighter, knowing the biting wind carrying the jagged, sanding pieces of reality was whittling his host down to nothing. Soon there would be no sign of Jimmy, no sign of Anna Milton - just two frees angels in a steadily spreading jagged crack in Time itself.

"I'll say one thing for those Winchesters," Anna managed with the last of her host's breath.

As Castiel felt the rest of Jimmy's body whipped away by the Hephaestian wind of the universe herself, he strained to hear the last words she would speak aloud.

"They don't do things by half--"

The Earth's spin began to slow. In an age that took barely a blink, it screeched and screamed and shuddered painfully to a complete halt. Powerless, helpless.

Dead in the water.

As the last remnants of the two hosts powdered into nothing, sloughed away by the undoing of the universe, the Earth once more began to spin. Slowly at first, it gained some momentum and the forces came together, pushing it on faster and faster. Soon the sun was haring across the sky in an impossible streak of speed.

Backwards.

.

.

* * *

.

_Don't shoot me - I know what happens next! And so will you - Wednesday 15th July. Promise._


	4. And Together We'll Go On, Through Time

**FOUR:**

**And Together We'll Go on, Through Time**

.

.

Mary woke with a slight gasp, finding the pillow looking at her. She pushed herself up to her elbows, blinking and rubbing her eyes. She stretched out a hand but found the other side of the bed empty.

She realised she could hear the baby monitor and suppressed a sigh. Instead she pushed herself out of bed, blearily looking down the hallway. She headed on down to the nursery, rubbing her eyes. She put her hand to the doorjamb, pushing the door open and wandering in.

"John?" she blinked. But her husband was not there. She shook her head, walking to the cot and looking down.

The baby rolled and protested, and she put her hands in slowly. She lifted him out, leaning him against her shoulder and patting him reassuringly.

"Oh, oh, oh," she breathed soothingly, bouncing him slightly. "Ok… Everything's alright Sammy," she cooed, and the baby quickly settled down. She smiled, turning to the door. Rubbing his back gently, she hummed for both of them as she walked to the door and out. She passed the light, wondering why it was still on, before it flickered. She tutted and tapped at the loose shade before carrying on to the top of the stairs.

"John?" she called. She saw the unmistakable shape of her husband slumped in the easy chair, his head tilted to one side, his slight snores a dead give away. She frowned as she realised the television set was flicking away, blinking through the channels. Abruptly it stopped on a black and white picture.

She smiled as the penny dropped, making her way down the stairs with little Sammy starting to doze against her front. She got to the bottom of the stairs and her smile broadened as she found her husband out for the count even though his large hand was pushing at the button on the remote to lessen the volume.

Rounding the chair she confirmed her suspicions.

"And what time do you call this, young man?" she grinned.

A small boy, his light shaggy mop of a head the first thing seen, was curled up on his father's lap. One hand was out on the back of his dad's, pushing it into the remote control button. The little head turned and looked up at her with surprise and a little fear.

"Mommy," he realised, and his little face turned happy. "Wanna watch a movie."

"Deanie, come on, it's a long time past everyone's bedtime."

"Mommy!"

"Don't start with me, young man," she said sternly. "I put you to bed hours ago. Why did you get up again?"

Her son's eyes dropped in a familiar gesture of discomfort. "Wanted a movie," he mumbled, but she noted how tightly his little hand was clutching at his father's dressing gown.

"Was that all?"

Dean hesitated, then his small eyes shifted from side to side in discomfort. She smiled slightly, amazed at how every one of his feelings flooded over his face unchecked.

"Dean?" she asked quietly. "Sweetheart. What is it?" _What nightmare made you get up in the middle of the night to find your father to sit on? Again?_ "Why did you come down here?"

Dean kept his face averted and she heard a little sigh fight its way out of him. "The voice."

Mary stared at him for a moment. "What voice?" she smiled. "The man on the TV? Let me guess, he said the next programme was going to be a movie, so you just had to--"

"It said Sammy's room was bad," he mumbled.

"Bad," Mary prompted flatly. "Bad like how?"

Dean shrugged. "Just… bad."

"And who is this voice, hmm?" she teased. "Who does it sound like? Your father?"

Dean looked at the face of the man sleeping under him. Dean's little face appeared troubled, but then he looked up at his mother. _I wanna tell her it's like me. Big me. But she'll say I can't eat Cheesy Puffs after dinner if I do_. "Nah," he sighed. "Don't know."

"Right," she nodded. She adjusted Sam against her shoulder, studying her older son for a moment longer. "Well come on. It's high time we all got back into bed."

"But--"

"If you want, you can come in with Daddy and me, ok?"

"But Sammy--"

"Sam too, if you really want," she shrugged, non-plussed. _What in the world has gotten into him all of a sudden?_

The small boy let go of his father's hand but squirmed against his front, beating a small fist against his chest. John's mouth slapped shut and his head shot up as if pushed.

"What the--. Dean! Stop that," he groused.

"Mommy says we gotta go to bed," he said, his tiny eyebrows wrinkling downwards in an attempt to be firm with his father.

John looked at him and hid his smile. "Ok then, sport. Let's go." He looked around at Mary, a peace offering of a smile on his face, before hefting his little boy onto his arm. He looked down and snatched up the remote, switching off the black and white monster movie currently in full swing. "Ready?"

Dean nodded and John carried him up the stairs, Mary following with Sam in her arms. Dean held onto his father's arm loosely, not minding in the least if he were being carried back to bed.

_Now I don't gotta walk it myself_, he giggled. John looked at him for a moment, poking him in the chest with a smile, and Dean squirmed in enjoyment before lacing his arms round his neck.

Something disturbed his amusement just then; Dean paused to wonder why he suddenly felt nervous. He looked round, trying to work out what was making his shoulders bunch up.

_Not the nursery_, a tiny wisp of warning clouded into Dean's head. _Not the nursery_...

As they reached the top step, Dean turned and stared at the far door quickly, his little face draining until it was nothing but chalk-white.

"What?" John asked, surprised. "What is it?"

"I don't like it," he whimpered, positive that something inside him was trying to push him away from the landing that led to Sam's room.

"Dean, don't try this. It's bedtime," John said firmly.

"_I don't like it_," Dean whispered, and his father was surprised to feel the little lad trembling against his arm. "Don't make us go. _Don't make us go!_" he squealed.

John turned and looked back at his wife. "I don't get it," he began.

But Mary lifted Sam up her chest slowly, stroking him quickly. "Sam's upset too," she observed, finding the tiny infant wriggling, his face turning red in his preparation to cry and snivel. She cooed and patted at him, but neither young boy could be calmed. Dean's distress worsened and he began to push at his father desperately. His voice rose to a shout as he repeated a word that sounded suspiciously like 'run'.

"Now just you cut that out!" John snapped with a sternness he had hardly ever needed with his eldest son. Despite the anger in his voice, the fitting boy in his arms appeared incapable of hearing him. His legs kicked, his fists lashed out, his screaming grew in volume.

"Sammy!" Mary cried, anguished. John turned to find his wife trying to soothe a screeching baby. She looked up to meet her husband's eyes. Then her face turned white. She drew in a horrified gasp even as she turned in the corridor. "John! Come with me!" she shouted.

He didn't think to argue. He followed her, trying to control the limbs of his four-year-old. She all but ran into their master bedroom, her husband behind her in confusion. He stopped but she was already laying Sam down as carefully as she could in their bed, bunching up bedclothes around him to keep him steady. She turned and crossed to John, ignoring his curious pleas for her to explain. She plucked Dean from his arms, turning the child to sit on her hip and look at her.

"Dean!" she cried. "Dean! Listen to me, listen to Mommy!" she commanded.

Dean fell silent, and John squelched a tiny spark of resentment of his eldest's tacit obedience of her sharper tone.

"Deanie - sweetheart, we're safe here. We're safe here," she said calmly. She put her right hand to his hair before sliding it down his face gently. "We're safe in here. Nothing can reach us in here," she whispered. "Do you believe Mommy?"

The little green eyes glittered at her for a second. Then the small, pale face nodded.

"Good boy," she nodded back. She leaned a kiss into his forehead firmly. "Now you stay with Sammy, ok, trooper?"

"Sammy?" he havered. For all his sudden calmness, his miniature body still shook with fear.

"You sit with Sammy. You hold onto him and you shut your eyes, ok, Deanie?"

"Why?"

"You shut your eyes," she said, more sternly. "Do as you're told. This is important."

Dean didn't answer.

"Dean, you obey your mother," John put in harshly. She flicked her gaze to him, understanding in a flash that while he had no clue what was going on, he was about to have faith that _she_ knew. Mary looked back at her eldest.

"I'm putting you down with Sammy. You keep him safe, you hear me?"

"Yes Mommy."

"Keep him safe." She held him tightly. "Say it. Say you'll keep him safe."

_Do it_, the voice sneaked into Dean's brain.

A strangely calm look came over his miniature features and Dean nodded. "I'll keep him safe," he repeated quietly. "I'll keep him safe," he added, his voice much stronger.

"That's my boy," she nodded. She kissed him and set him down quickly on the bed. He immediately scrambled to the flailing baby, grabbing him up and propping his head on his arm. He pulled him onto his lap securely, turning him to fall into his front. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and listened to the baby gurgling and relaxing at the familiar touch of his sibling.

"It's ok, Sammy," Dean whispered. "I got you. I got you. Everything's gonna be ok."

"John," Mary commanded, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

"Mary, what is it? What's going on here?"

"A man's going to come in through that door. We're going to stop him."

"What man?" came his father's voice. "Mary, what the hell--"

"Just don't ask. When this is over, when he's gone - then, I swear to God, I'll tell you everything," she said. The desperation in her voice almost made Dean open his eyes.

But he didn't dare. Instead he swallowed, gripped his baby brother more tightly, and concentrated on whispering over and over to the small bundle. "It's ok Sammy. Everything's gonna be ok. I got you, Sammy. Everything's gonna be ok."

"John - get back behind the rug," his mother hissed, worry colouring her tone.

"Why?"

"Just do it! He can't cross the rug!"

"Because of that thing you painted under it?"

There was a creak, and then the new sound of a man's voice that was not his father's.

"Hello again, Mary," it oiled. "Long time no see. How are the boys doing?"

Dean shivered at the hidden tone of power in the obsequious voice, on the man he didn't know. And yet… something tickled in Dean's mind. A tiny, tiny voice told him to open one eye, just one eye, just for a moment, just to see the man with the strangely familiar voice.

He held out for a surprisingly long few minutes. The voice was talking, reasoning, commanding. Dean heard his mother's voice: cold, warning, adamant. Suddenly he did not know whom he feared more.

The voice kept telling him to open his eyes, to look at this moment, to see what was happening. Something that sounded so much like him, but couldn't have been him, telling him this was a crossroads, this was where he had to do something to change… _some_thing.

Unsure why, he let his right eye pop open. He had time to catch sight of an unremarkable man standing with his hands apparently in his jacket pockets, talking to his parents. He caught a strange glint to the man's eyes, almost as if they were yellow.

And whether it was the strange, knowing voice in his head that he was beginning to believe knew him better than anyone, or little Dean's own instinct, he suddenly had a deep and overwhelming fear for his brother.

He squeezed his eye shut again, whispering his mantra over and over:_ "Everything's gonna be ok. I got you, Sammy. Everything's gonna be ok_."

There was an oily, unctuous laugh, thick with derision and hatred. He heard his father shout and a wooden crash. Dean jumped in fright but he neither stopped his whispering nor opened his eyes.

"A devil's trap? Really? Oh Mary, I'm wounded," came the laughing voice. "But not enough to stop me."

"Don't you touch them!" his mother shouted furiously. A crash and a frightened feminine cry almost had Dean in tears. Still he squeezed his eyes shut. Still he wished and prayed everything would stop.

Until something grasped at the collar of his pyjamas. He felt himself lifted from the bed but clutched at baby Sam tightly.

"No!" Mary screamed.

_Open your eyes_, whispered the voice. And he did.

He saw the leering face of an older man, watching him with twinkling yellow eyes of mischief.

"Well, well, well," he breathed maliciously. Dean stared, his breath catching in his throat with terror. "I think you have something there that I need," he added.

Dean realised the man's other hand was coming up for Sam's blanket. Fear turned into anger. He filled his lungs and let it go with a baleful shout: "Get away from Sammy!"

The man chuckled. "Oh-ho, a little spirit in this one. Pity you ain't the one I need, kid. That could have been fun." His hand moved forward and grasped the baby's soft woollen wrappings.

_Do it_! the voice urged in Dean's head. _Do it! Do it NOW!_

Dean didn't question the voice. He simply swung his legs back in the air and pounded both feet forward as hard as he could.

They struck the man in the arm. It pushed him back. He lost his balance and let go of the boy. Dean dropped back to the bed. He folded Sam into his front and curled up on his side, shaking with rage. He waited for the strike, the kick, the retribution for what he had done.

But it didn't come. Instead he heard another crash, a loud warning from John. Then a terrible snarl and a cry of anger that was most definitely not human.

"Fine - now I have your husband I'll flay the skin from him while you watch!"

And then Dean heard his mother's voice, clear as day:

"_Put. Him. Down_."

.

.

* * *

_Da da daaaa! Tune in Sunday 19th July for the conclusion! _

_Hope this wasn't too predictable..._


	5. Crazy Circles, Going Round And Round

**FIVE**

**Crazy Circles, Going Round And Round**

.

.

Dean felt shivers of fear go through him. He had never heard his mother more perfectly angry. He squeezed his eyes ever tighter, feeling his head start to shake in fear. His whispering grew to a worried whimper as he picked up his breath, shook it out, and began repeating his words of comfort over and over.

"Everything's gonna be ok. I got you, Sammy. Everything's gonna be ok."

The baby in his hold waved little arms, one of them catching at Dean's chin. Sam's pudgy limb paused but then repeated the manoeuvre, this time encountering Dean's pyjamas. It held fast to the material in a way that forced his elder brother to think that baby Sam knew _exactly_ what level of fear had taken the room.

Without opening his eyes, Dean reached for the soft wool over his baby brother's heart. He clutched it tightly, his fist resting gently on the baby's heartbeat, knowing wee Sam had a good hold over his, too. And that's how they held onto each other, fearing the next sound in the room.

It was another greasy laugh. And then the man's voice.

"It's your husband or that _attractive_, charming baby Sammy of yours. What do you say?"

An almighty report, a crack, ripped through the house. Dean stiffened in shock as he recognised the sound of a gun, just like from the movies. He heard the sound of two large, soft things hitting the wooden floor.

Silence. Dean felt his breath stop.

Finally:

"_Jesus!_" John blurted.

"John - are you ok?" His mother's voice was worried as it crossed the room.

"Yeah - I… I think so," came his father's voice. "But that man… You shot him--"

"That wasn't a man."

There was silence for what felt like a very long time.

"The boys," Mary said at last.

Dean heard the voices, heard the sounds. But he couldn't make any part of him obey the slightest command.

A hand touched gently at his shoulder.

"Dean?" came his mother's voice. He shook his head blindly, refusing to open his eyes. "Deanie, it's Mommy. You can come out now."

He waited for the strange voice, the other him, to tell him it was ok. But it was gone; something told him it wasn't coming back, as if it couldn't. He realised in that second he had done something; some_one_ had done something big. He just had no idea what it was.

But he _did_ know his mother's worried voice when he heard it, and he knew when it was including him, not directed at him.

He opened his eyes and looked up into the face of his mother. Her tired eyes smiled at his look of relief.

"You did it, you protected Sammy for me," she whispered, sitting on the bed and hauling him up to sit in her lap. She wrapped her arms round both sons, feeling Dean's wet face press into her nightdress.

"Mommy!" he trembled, and she let her own tears fall at last. She put her hand to her eldest son's head, keeping his face tight to her in relief.

"Oh sweetheart, you were so brave," she managed, the sound of tears marring her soft tone.

"Mary--" John began.

His voice stopped. Instead Dean felt the bed move, knew his father had sat and simply enveloped his family. He squeezed and Dean smelt very keenly the familiar, welcome scent of his parents so close to him.

Mary controlled her tears, steadied her breathing. She lifted her head and leaned it against her husband's shoulder. "John, I need you to do something for me…"

"Anything."

Dean simply melted into his mother's warmth, the simple act of letting her comfort him breaking every single instinct he had just developed during the past nightmare. But something gnawed at him to let it go, let her be his mother, let everything settle into the way it always should have done. Was it the remnant of the voice, the other him? Whatever it was, it sounded happy beyond imagining. Little Dean wasn't sure if he would ever remember or explain that to anyone else. But it was all he needed to know that he was and had been in the right place at the right time.

_Finally… I made it right_...

The thought wisped and was gone, barely heard and understood even less. Little Dean let the sounds of the here and now just wash over him: of his mother talking softly over his head, of his father starting to protest but then acquiescing at her patient, knowing tone.

Baby Sammy shifted and sniffled. Dean opened his eyes, aware that the two worlds the four of them shared, the private little arenas of parents versus brothers, would one day cross. But it would not be today. Today, his mother had his father and they had their adult world; but baby Sam and bigger Dean would always have their private understanding, their own world of brotherly shenanigans and sibling rivalry yet to come.

Dean looked down at the fretting brother and suddenly he saw a purpose, a reason to be older, angrier, louder, faster, stronger. It was in the tiny face searching for his, in the way the little expressions changed predictably for their parents but slyly mercurially for his older brother; it was just Sammy.

Dean grinned his first - had anyone but Sam seen it - heart-stopping grin. He nodded once. "Everything's gonna be ok. I got you, Sammy. Everything's gonna be ok," he whispered, with wisdom beyond his years.

He pushed the blanket up around the baby slowly, closing his eyes and leaning more against the protective warmth of his mother. He heard the talking above his head cease, heard his father's footsteps retreat.

He looked up at Mary with burning innocence.

"Where's Daddy?" he dared.

"He's taking out some trash," she whispered, and for a moment, Dean was sure he saw a smile. But then she kissed his forehead firmly, pulling him against her in a warm hug that melted his fears.

They stayed that way until they heard John creaking along the landing. He poked his head in the open door.

"It's done," he nodded. "Just like you said to."

"Thanks," she breathed. She gestured with her head and he walked in slowly, still in his US Marines shirt and pyjama bottoms.

"What do we do with the Colt now?"

"Later," she sighed, "we'll think about that later."

John huffed but he sat on the bed, wrapping his arms around them all.

"We'll talk about it all later," Mary managed, sounding troubled. "Right now… I want to enjoy this moment. It's been ten years of worry and heart-sickness. It's about time I finally enjoyed what we have."

It was silent for a long minute, the four of them lost in individual thoughts. Finally, John cleared his throat.

"But… how did you know?" he asked gruffly. "How did you… you had that big old gun under the windowsill since we moved in here. How did you know?"

Mary took a deep breath wearily, lifting her head from his shoulder and stroking her hand down her eldest son's shaggy hair.

"I still can't believe it; I still can't believe he was right," she muttered.

"Who? Who was right?" John pressed. He waited impatiently as his wife eyed the two children in her arms.

"I could tell you a crazy story about some young man warning me about this night," she mused, watching her hand trace through Dean's hair. "I could remind you of what happened before we got married - and explain why I kept the gun." She sighed, leaning down and kissing the top of Dean's grateful head. "But instead I'll just say… I think this was always how it was meant to go."

"How whut was meant to go?" John asked, completely baffled. "How will I ever understand everything that just happened - what he said to you, what he said he had to do to Sammy--"

"Do you believe me? That it was him or us?" she asked firmly.

John considered her for a long moment but then indecision made him look away. His eyes caught, not for the first time, the small circles and pentacles carved into the wood around the bed, old and worn but one she had always resisted replacing.

And then it came to him: something bigger than he could comprehend had finally been settled. _I don't understand it, and I don't want to understand it. All I want is my wife and kids, safe. And they are. Because of her. So what does it matter? Does it matter what I think about what happened tonight?_

He looked back at her with a confident lift to his chin. "I believe you," he allowed. "But… just tell me… how did you know?"

Mary simply lifted her head again, smiling at him tiredly. "How will I ever find that young man and thank him for warning me that that yellow-eyed man would come back for us? And how did he know in the first place?" she countered, her hand still unconsciously tousling her son's fair head. "We all have questions that we really, _really_ don't want the answers to."

John just looked at her for a long moment. At last he blew out a long sigh, shaking his head and wrapping both arms round her.

"I'll never get the whole story, will I?" he realised. _Tell the truth, I don't think I really want it anyway_.

"Not when I don't know it myself," she admitted. "If these two hadn't started hollering, and I hadn't thought back to that flickering light and what that boy had told me… Who knows what would have happened?"

"Yeah," John realised, a cold hand of fear clutching at his heart as he felt, all too clearly, the woman and two small boys in his protective embrace. "Who knows?"

.

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**FIN**

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_References episode 4x03 'In The Beginning'._

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**_Author's Notes:_**

_Again, I can and will place blame directly with the Stolichnaya. And then there's the cheese Taquitos… Maybe I should NOT eat them within three hours of going to bed…_

_And I know I promised I would never kill the boys again after my AU effort, 'Means To An End', but technically I didn't kill them at all this time round - cos it never happened! And neither did the four (soon to be five) seasons on TV! So Dean warned his younger self to stop it all from happening, so he was never there to go through 'In The Beginning' and warn his mam, never became a hunter, and therefore was never there to make his younger self remember in the first place - or (this time) warn people of the YED…_

_But wait, if it never happened, how did Dean remember it? And how did he warn his younger self…? Paging Dr Beckett! Dr Sam Beckett, I need some help figuring out this wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey fourth-dimensional stuff, please…_


End file.
